


The Dioscuri

by londonfalling



Series: the twin Castor and twin of Castor [4]
Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brother/Brother Incest, Canon-Typical Violence, Incest, M/M, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn, Time Travel, Twincest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-18
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-12 20:40:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21482524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/londonfalling/pseuds/londonfalling
Summary: The difficult thing about time travel, Vergil reflects, is to know where to stop. Dante makes it harder. (A standalone AU)
Relationships: Dante/Vergil (Devil May Cry), one-sided Arkham/Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Series: the twin Castor and twin of Castor [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1453129
Kudos: 33





	1. i. Prelude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This can be read as a standalone, though it has many things in common with the other parts of the series. Expect lots of introspection and some talk about siblings or lovers in Roman literature and Greco-Roman myths. Plot too, of course.

”_You're an incomplete being as well_.”

Lying in a pool of his own blood, this is not what Vergil wants to hear.

Rapidly losing sensation in his limbs, this is not what he wants to feel and remember − and nevertheless, here he is, sensing Yamato sharper in the expired image of her piercing the man's chest than in the faint call he is able detect from where she now lies forgotten, fallen. Bleeding out is a room-temperature experience, he notes idly: hot blood balances out the coldness radiating from the stone under his broken back and lulls the screaming pieces of his vertebra into mild sleep. In the lazily settling drowsiness, his fingers fumble and try to catch the shape in which they curled around the katana when it found its way into tissue that was almost tainted enough to corrode the carbon blade. The man and his perverse habit of forcing himself on him uninvited, on her, on them, to force his hand and make himself bleed his revolting blood on him. His foul, suicidally audacious claws around Yamato like the caress of a rapist, time and time again. The last cut feels fresh and drowns out every recollection of her singing deep inside his original reflection. Arkham's blood was colder than his when it stained his fingers, almost reptilian in nature. If he could forget the way it poisoned his skin and stuck into the impressions etched in the tips, maybe the words would fade away as well.

_You're incomplete._

Although Arkham himself was wrong, his words rang as true as the steel biting into his flesh. Faithful Yamato, sure and certain. She cut him down but left the accusation untouched.

How could Arkham −

He did not expect anyone to see --

No, Arkham did not know the truth hidden in his careless taunt. The human, more inhuman than him, could not understand the lengths Vergil had gone to banish the fate that met Arkham's wife at Arkham's very own hands. Such a simple monster could not comprehend why Vergil would deem the killing of one's better half distasteful enough to bring up and play with like he did − such a reprehensive creature could only perceive the surface level, the superficial defect. Vergil's humanity; surely a shortcoming, but not the reason why he is inadequate and imperfect.

Vergil thinks he paints a wan smile on his face. The sweetest of things are often also the bitterest; it could as well be a grimace. Emoting is merely a means to waste energy he no longer has an abundance of, and yet this is the condition he finds himself in. Perhaps Dante would find it amusing. He is too numb to tell if he would; too numb to tell which expression he takes to the grave with him.

He tries to summon a recollection of Dante in spite of the fact that thinking of him has proven out to be a highly effective method for shattering his focus. Survival, he reminds his cloudy mind, ought to be his first priority, currently and on the whole. Without survival one does not protect anything.

His brother is a field of running sand and Vergil, running out of time, wants to sink deeper.

It is not Dante's fault Vergil is weak.

This is not the first time he has failed. It does seem to be the last. Dante knows of his past failures; if he never gets to know of this, it will mean nothing, it will not matter, it will not keep him safe. Vergil circulates the thought in his mind. It should not bother him this much. Knowledge of his efforts, his defeat, would not accomplish anything.

Dante − why does he want to reach him, then? This is not a state in which he desires to be seen, least of all by him, and it is not the final impression he is willing to leave behind, no matter how accurate. The laughter that boils in his stomach hurts; he lies in his blood, their shared blood, that carries away his plans and attempts, their shared future. How fitting. Despite that, it is not just his selfish pride that tells him his need to have his twin with him is entirely senseless. Dante deserves better and he wishes to give him everything. Not this (ultimately, not him, insufficient as he is).

He does not want to make amends. If a sun cannot be held responsible for being too blinding, then a person watching it is not to be blamed for being rendered blind.

(He does not want to atone, does he?)

But −

As his years are crumbling down around him, no amount of honesty appears to be excessive. Very well; in the subterranean silence that is only breached by the steps coming closer and closer, Vergil admits he longs for the comfort of a touch he would refuse. Dante would hold him. Vergil would not let him. There is a time for that, only now it is experiencing a premature death, never to see light of day.

exitus hic nobis non inhonestus erit. The familiar line bubbles up into his mouth. _To me, this death will not be a disgrace_. Like this, the text isolated without its context and with his lonesome body unraveling into languid red waves, the solace he has found in the elegy tastes like a lie.

Another disconnected notion: me licet unda ferat, te modo terra tegat_. Let the waves carry me away as long as the ground protects you_. The ground. It fell apart beneath him in the most literal sense − for all his prayers, it is only so likely to last under Dante's heels. With great difficulty, Vergil turns his head to face the blue flames above the rubble of stone that has reshaped his spine into a string of unrefined pearls. Soon to be above him.

“Knowing this, I thought you'd be more useful to me, but I was wrong,” he said to Arkham. It was the truth. A man without principles is easy to use and even easier to discard. However, now Vergil is the one to fall.

“But I was wrong.” Approaching death, it feels like a truth as well.

“_What about you? You're an incomplete being as well_.”

“I was wrong,” Vergil thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quotes are from Propertius (poem 2,26b / 2,26c).


	2. i. α

When the day breaks, Vergil is already out. The air smells of bitter leaves and damp soil. Autumn. Seasons have a habit of bleeding into each other. Summer came and went; he is still wearing a coat too heavy for daylight but senses winter slinking its clammy appendages under the layers. He cannot decide if he appreciates the reminder of being so physically connected to his surroundings; on one hand, his impassioned surprise at it tells him his equilibrium on the edge is precarious, that he could at any moment falter and stumble over some very real obstacle he has been ignoring due to its sheer obviousness. Laws of nature tend to fade into the background when one is immersed in the transcendental and metaphysical and it is easy to get in too deep, so the note is not without its purpose.

Then again, Vergil has had too many things breaking in through his vest. To have his personal space compromised once again raises illogical resentment at the time of year he has never had an opinion on. He fixes his scarf out of compulsion even when he is not cold, just… off balance. Perhaps he would prefer the usual distance between him and every other thing that lives and breathes and dies under this sky, under the waning Gemini losing their fight to the tyranny of the sun. Seasons pass and this morning at the point of intersection he is feeling uncomfortably present.

Dante, he exhales the thought out. Dante liked the junctions between them. Come fall, he would dive headfirst into the piles of colorful decay and laugh when the dead would find their way into the library and Vergil's bed clothes. Dante liked change. When he looks out the window today, does he look back on the way he would persuade Vergil to join him in the puddles with fondness or does the same uneasiness accompany him as well?

His brother used to like the seasons, but Vergil tells himself it does not matter to him one way or another if he ever gets to see the snow. He still allows himself some of the maudlinness, now. Temen-ni-gru shimmers so clearly in his mind's eye it is all but corporeal. The depictions of it he has seen on vellum have so far seemed fanciful and unlikely and, as a rule, his skepticism has served him well. When first coming across sketches of a Babel tower that supposedly held Father's true last will, sealed away but ripe and waiting to be picked like an apple, and legends of a poison tree cultivating divine power in its fruit, he had understandably been wary. Intrigued, surely, but more than doubtful. Today, he can hear the spires soaring higher and hollow bells tolling their warning.

This is the final day of his life such as he has known it. He does not feel sentimental about it − in a way, he is glad to see it go −, but it is a watershed, a turning point. Tomorrow, they will have begun the first rituals well before dawn. Since Dante cannot keep him company in corpore for reasons beyond obvious, it seems that Vergil will spend the eve, the last of the latter days, with the memory of him. Despite his attempts, it has gained a human-like form and a reflection of his stubborn nature, and when it skirts on his heels and clings to his coattails, he knows where his steps will take him, eventually.

Not yet; there are guilty pleasures and then there are duties. He can concoct justifications potent enough to turn the former into the latter _after_ he is done searching. After all, no matter how rigorously he trains with Yamato, his truest talent appears to lie in alchemy and dressing his short-sighted human instincts into robes fit for sensible, thought-out blueprints which are almost attractive enough to ensnare him. Resigned to acting out the plot willingly or unwillingly, Vergil sets out to do what he must first.

When pressed both metaphorically and rather more concretely with Yamato's impatience, Arkham spilled the parameters in which the tower operates and Vergil decided not to give him the satisfaction of spilling his blood regardless. With this kind of demonic power and ancient magics, he is unsurprised they are little more than vague, superficially educated guesses. It merely stresses what has been obvious to him from the start: had he more time at his disposal, he would have no need for the outsider at all. This human who has spent the whole of his life researching the matter could not truly provide him with information he would not have figured out himself at this point, and he has only been actively investigating Temen-ni-gru for some weeks and months. Arkham must be aware of this to some degree; he has been unusually tight-lipped about anything relating to Sparda, as of late. (If only would that translate into him being quiet and not focusing his efforts on wringing reactions and personal information out of Vergil instead. His ears are still ringing from yesterday. He bit into his tongue to keep himself from replying and bled into his own mouth, silent seething fury competing with the humiliation. _Oh, but aren't you eager to meet your brother? Dante is all grown up now; a worthy opponent._ Fingers on Yamato, eyes prying his clothing off his body in the middle of the preparations, voice lowered to impose forged intimacy on a meeting that should have been revolving around business only. _You must be more inexperienced than you let on. How fortunate that I'm more than capable of being your guide in the arcane, in… all things.) _The explanation he received, adorned with unnecessary looming just on the very edge of the innermost circle of his comfort zone, cemented his belief that the man has only understood the barest of bones and nothing more. If he did not have reasons for hurrying, he would do away with him and find out how to open the doors and disarm the security mechanisms on his own. Alas.

The schematics have some limitations, but it all comes down to the tower being bound to the confines of this town, nearly as old as time itself. Within those boundaries, he has options. How curious, being able to dictate how something unfolds. With the rough measurements in mind, Vergil eyes the district around him. The ground zero, the area the tower will claim for itself shall be one thing: the impact radius will spread out much wider to swallow everything these wretched lands happen to hold nearby it. Standing in the middle of the worn-down street in dewy morning light and air, he can picture it with clarity − pitiful demons wandering around and preying on humans, inebriated by the sudden power of something being weaker than them; houses collapsing like playing cards in the breeze; people screaming in the ruins; fires breaking out and melting into the amber skyline: the smell of ember and bone. Casualties are unavoidable; this exercise is largely immaterial, gilding tombstones. He knows this. He looks around with sharp judgment. Decrepit buildings, most uninhabited, but there are still trash bags sitting on the pavement, an empty one fluttering in the wind. Fresh − the rats are still on the lookout or have already left the ship. On the left, there is a sliver of a parking lot mottled with rusty metallic paint of cars and a motorcycle between two blocks of flats; a sizeable factory blowing out white smoke on the other side of the street, likely the reason for the rendezvous of the vehicles. The city is waking up unaware of how much it is taking for granted − tomorrow is another early chime of the alarm clock and another shift until it isn't. He is on the sidewalk, sees everything and feels how the keys to its annihilation weigh less than its hollow promises of a hereafter. On the right, a crayon-bright poster is announcing some after-school event with wobbly handwriting.

No, not here. 

He resists the urge to sigh. His brother the local would know the optimal placement, but even if they had parted on better terms and he would be willing to have a civil conversation instead of hurling his instantaneous emotions at him, he would refuse to help him with his pains by some arbitrary moral rule he could not motivate and in essence aggravate the matters himself. _nihil fecisse benigne prodest_, Vergil supposes, tired amusement rolling off his tongue unbidden. _It is no use being merciful and kind_, and here he is, making the air sing with Yamato and bending the fabric of the universe for such an absurd purpose. He cares neither about industrial workers nor children, but −

He steps into the electric purple depths of the gateway.

Next, there is a hospital.

Then, a major apartment complex.

A mall and a school.

When he finally settles for a location, the morning has chased the noon into a corner; the sun is at its apex when he turns around a corner and sees it hang above Dante's. This is the sight that will greet Arkham in less than twenty-four hours. He suppresses the possessiveness which perks up at the observation. This, too, was his choice alone.

So. His new abode. The irony that Vergil found his landfill, relatively speaking, in its vicinity is not lost on him; how he expects to get any traffic when he is blockaded by these shambles is beyond all comprehension. He senses the neon lights flickering at random even though the wall above the door that looks like it has been bashed one time too many already is yet to be stained by Dante's utter and utterly unapologetic lack of style. A tawdry loud color and perhaps some tasteless silhouette as a logotype, aesthetics stolen from the gentlemen's club he passed on his way here. Will Dante feign indignation at the client who enters his fine establishment lured in by the bling and draws the natural conclusion to its end when he sees how the entrepreneur dresses himself? Does he already have a name for it and does it in any shape or form contain the words Hell, Devil or Fire and clumsy innuendo? This pettiness is unbecoming and somewhat unwarranted, he admits this freely, but it is to be expected − today, he lets it slide until the feelings disappear under the surface.

Not picturing how it would feel like to come home through this tacky entrance, however, proves out to be an arduous task. Dante laughs at his weakness when he peels himself off his shoulder to lean against the frame and try to fit the key into the lock with drunken, greedy fingers that latch onto his when he tires of the waiting and gets closer to do it himself. They seize his coat, now warm again, by the lapels and pull him even closer, − Vergil indulges him and the fantasy for a moment − the smell of honeyed bourbon merging with its taste. The smile melts against him but reemerges in the hand cradling the back of his head, the other one flailing blindly on the handle. “Come in for a drink?”

As much as it nettles him, there are reasons why he has assigned the chore of inviting Dante to join him at the tower to someone else. (He does dislike having to underestimate him. That does nothing to dissuade him from thinking Dante is more than likely to miss the less literal invitation that arrives in the shape of a colossal piece of architecture erupting from beneath the ground seemingly out of the blue.)

Before his pet chimera develops a shadow, he restabilizes himself. Yamato sounds almost reproaching when he bares her blade collar and sheathes her just before gold turns into steel. He supposes she is the closest he has to a conscience. As such, she is correct; it is best to keep his focus, even if he has left some distance between himself and the line where safe ground ends. If he gets carried away and gets any closer than that, Dante is sure to notice. From here he cannot reach his presence or vice versa, but the proximity feels charged nevertheless. This is the closest they have been in a year.

Vergil is not to be compared to men like Arkham in any capacity, but his nerves are floating and it is what he does while gazing at the door, half wishing and half dreading Dante would stumble out of it as if he just _knew _he is outside. There is no way he does, Vergil is careful and cautious and yearning, and yet underneath the mess he has made of his mind, he finds himself disappointed. Emotionally, he expects too much out of their connection and being aware of the irrationality does nothing to shake it. So he watches and waits in vain and wonders if Dante would share the repulsion he has been living with for some time now, being so closely observed by someone unwelcome.

“Come in.” (One day.)

He will know tomorrow, will he not? That Dante will react violently and disproportionately goes without question − when he makes his displeasure known, it is simple enough to discern if he is lashing out in anger or revolt. (How he loathes that the man has poisoned this too. Did he have some qualms when their meeting at eighteen had not ended on the note he had anticipated? Certainly, but it is his lack of faith, not something inflicted upon him.) When it is all over, he can find amusement in this, that he could have ever even entertained the thought of Dante regarding their ties as something to be disgusted by.

Tomorrow. The future will either come or then it will not. Vergil has never been in the position to waste effort into conjuring up contingencies, has never had the chance to pick and choose and fall back into the safety net of plan Bs if he trips. Matters not; he prefers things cut and dried. How Grecian of him to prize dying young in blazing eternal glory rather than bearing the failure of his Biblical obligation of being his brother's keeper, if only for the trivial, fleeting moment the awakening demon king would allow his fallen opponents to have. For the recognition and fame he has no use: it is the shame that drives him when a rare spell of doubts eat away his conviction and he winds up staring at the wall with unseeing eyes in the dead of the night, losing time and count of how many times he has removed the mekugi to uncover the tang of the blade. Being unable to look Dante in the eye would be worse than any torture. What Vergil fears is not the fall.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. He casts a final look at the door and turns. In hindsight, it is not the biggest of his mistakes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About the name of Dante's shop: although this is exits in an independent timeline, I've run with the same continuity for that detail as I did in part 2 of this series, which is
> 
> Dante originally names the digs _Devil Never Cry_ around DMC 1 -> Dante gets drunk and the place gets destroyed post DMC 3 -> Dante renames his business _Devil May Cry_ .
> 
> Today in the Poetry Corner: Catullus 73.
> 
> desine de quoquam quicquam bene velle mereri  
cease in any way wishing to be owned anything  
aut aliquem fieri posse putare pium.  
or supposing anyone could become thankful.  
omnia sunt ingrata, nihil fecisse benigne  
everything goes unappreciated, having done anything out of kindness  
prodest, immo etiam taedet obestque magis; −−  
is no use, conversely it exhausts and harms even more; −−


End file.
